


Perspective

by captainsarmband



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Euro 2016, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsarmband/pseuds/captainsarmband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a shattering 0-3 loss to Spain, with heavy limbs and a heavier heart, slumped on ground in the darkness of a hotel corridor, Nuri finds solace in a familiar voice that gives him something to hope for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Nuri looked so miserable in his post-match interview that I had to make something up to fix it.  
> Once again I am eternally grateful for [Julija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger) who read this at 2am and didn't find it horrible.

 

 

His limbs are heavy when he tiptoes to his bed, hardly managing to raise his feet off the floor. He doesn’t want to wake Emre, who after a painful series of half-finished sentences of _I can’t believe-_ and _But what if we-_ loaded with all the incredulity and confused faith that only comes with youth finally seems to have found blissful ignorance in sleep. Nuri doesn’t know whether to envy him the inexperience or mourn the loss of innocence bound to come crashing over him at some point.

 

His hair is still wet when he lets his head sink into the soft pillow. He hates going to bed with wet hair, he hates imagining the dampness seeping into the fabric. But he feels too tired, too worn out to do anything about it. His eyes are almost falling closed when he reaches for his phone. There are too many missed calls, too many messages, some of them are angry, some of them full of pity, some understanding. He is grateful for some, unsurprised by others. He sends a quick reply to his mother, types a sharp remark to an old acquaintance making fun of their loss, but then thinks better of it and deletes it.

 

He sets his alarm and reaches out to put his phone on the bedside table, when a new message arrives. He stills, looks at the name on the screen, looks at the message. It takes him a while to understand the meaning, even though (or because) it’s only two words. _Call me_.

 

His legs feel chained to the bed and it takes him three attempts to finally lift them off the bed. Finding balance with his hand to the wall, he drags himself to the door, slips out and closes it quietly behind him. He considers going down to the lobby, the armchairs soft and inviting, but an eternity away. He instead leans against the door and lets himself slide down to the floor. It’s not entirely comfortable, his back aches, and he pulls his knees to his chest before pressing the call button.

 

It only rings once before he answers and the familiarity of his voice makes Nuri let out a small sigh and close his eyes. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Nuri replies through the lump in his throat. “You told me to call.”

 

“How are you?” The thing about Schmelle is that he knows when you don’t want to talk, but have to. When there are questions you don’t want to be asked, but need to find answers for to understand yourself. The thing about Schmelle is that he knows Nuri better than himself.

 

“Did you see the game?”

 

There is a pause on the other end, then quietly, “Of course I did.”

 

His question was more rhetoric than anything, but the reply stops his next words before they leave his mouth. _Of course I did. I can’t be there, but I’m still here for you._ The thing about Schmelle is that his loyalty is unwavering.

 

He lets out a breath that comes out trembling and turns into a soft whimper at the end. He doesn’t care. “I was supposed to stabilise our midfield for the second half. Did our midfield seem stabilised to you?”

 

“Nuri-“

 

“I can’t help them. I wanted to play and then I did and I didn’t help.” He sounds pathetic and he knows it. He lets his head fall back against the door with a soft thump and stares at the white ceiling above. “All those minutes on the bench, you don’t understand how badly I wanted to play and thought I could make a difference.”

 

“Yeah, tell me more about not representing your country at a major tournament,” Schmelle says, but there is no edge to his voice, if anything he sounds – _teasing_.

 

“Well, maybe if you worked a little harder you would at least be not representing your country from the bench.”

 

“You’re a dick, you know that?”

 

“I could send you a postcard so you don’t feel too left out. I think I still have a spare one from the last match.”

 

“I hope it’s one with the Eiffel Tower. I always forget what it looks like, please do remind me.”

 

Nuri feels the corners of his lips turn upward in a smile. Because Schmelle makes him feel light, when his mood and bones are heavy, because the disappointment and guilt suddenly feel less important. Because he knows they played in Paris. Because he’s right there with him even when he isn’t.

 

He is able to breathe again, but can’t stop his mind from wandering back to the match. Finally feels brave enough to embrace the harsh reality of it. “They whistled Arda, Schmelle,” he says before he knows he is going to. “He’s one of our best, maybe the best. He couldn’t carry us through this and they whistled him. What does that say about us?” There’s a quiet click and the corridor is dark. He knows it would only take one small movement to activate the motion sensor, but the darkness seems fitting somehow.

 

Silence settles between them and he imagines Schmelle leaning against the opposite wall, running his hand through his hair like he made it a habit lately, legs spread out so his foot almost touches his own. His eyes quickly get used to the darkness, however, and there is nothing but a blank wall staring back at him.

 

“Schmelle?” He finally asks, voice hardly more than a whisper.

 

He flinches so hard that he hits his head on the door at the loud bark right next to his ear. It takes him a second before he realizes that it comes from the other end of the line. He moves the phone a little further from his ear when the bark is replaced by an enthusiastic sniff and only faintly hears the “Mimi! Mimi, _aus_!” in the background.

 

“Nuri?”

 

“Did you just leave me with your dog?”

 

“I thought you just needed to mope a little, so I went to brush my teeth.” There is not a single ounce of remorse in his voice and Nuri presses his lips together in a pout at the betrayal. “I had you on speakerphone and Mimi just likes you.”

 

“Yeah, in a way that I like rice and beans.”

 

“Maybe not that much. _Magst du den Nuri? Ja, wir mögen den Nuri, ne?_ ” His voice is a little muffled and distinctly higher in a way that Nuri knows he only adapts when talking to his dogs. With all the apprehension towards Schmelle’s dogs, he still feels a strange fondness spreading through his chest. He imagines him sprawled on his sofa, scratching the dog’s head pillowed on his stomach.

 

“Maybe she’s not that bad.” He knows he’ll regret relenting, but Schmelle’s content hum is worth it for the time being.

 

“Listen,” Schmelle says suddenly. “I know this is important for you. And I really hope you will somehow make it through. You deserve it, Nuri, you deserve everything.” Nuri wants to object, wants to enumerate an elaborate list of reasons why that isn’t true. But it’s Schmelle. And the thing about Schmelle is that when he is sincere, you don’t doubt him. “But,” he continues after a break, “if you do happen to come home early- maybe I wouldn’t hate it so much, if you came home and we took Mimi and Oskar for a walk and I could make you rice and beans, because your moping butt would probably be useless around the kitchen anyway and- just, it might not be the end of the world, you know.”

 

He lets it sink in. In the darkness of the generic hotel corridor, he can almost smell the scent of Schmelle’s sweater, like he does when he presses his face into his shoulder after they haven’t seen each other for a while, washing powder and a slight hint of perfume and inevitably dog.

 

“I’m not taking your dogs for a walk.”

 

“We could just go for a walk without them.”

 

“I don’t feel like using my legs for the next century.”

 

“You could just be here.”

 

“I think I could do that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Schmelle sounds as tired as he feels and for a second he allows himself to imagine falling asleep next to him. Noses almost touching, but not quite, feeling the other’s breath on his face until it starts to tickle, watching Schmelle scrunch up his nose at the feeling, running his fingertips over his cheek and feel the stubble on his skin.

 

“Night, Schmelle.”

 

“Night, Nuri.”

 

He listens to Schmelle’s breathing for a moment before he hangs up. Only seconds later, there is a new notification on his phone and when he opens it, he finds a photo of Schmelle, one arm draped around the two dogs cuddled up to his side, lips parted slightly and curved into a lopsided smile.

 

Nuri’s thumb moves to send him a reply, when the door behind him suddenly gives in and he finds himself flat on the floor, staring at a curious face hovering over him.

 

“What are you doing out there?” Emre asks sleepily and reaches out a hand to help him up.

 

“Just calling someone.” He lets himself be pulled to his feet and feels every muscle in his body protest.

 

“Are you okay?” His heart breaks a little at the concern in Emre’s voice, that a boy so young should be genuinely worried about him.

 

He reaches out and ruffles the kid’s already sleep-tousled hair which earns him a scandalised huff. “Not really,” he says honestly and drops down onto his bed, eyelids feeling even heavier at the touch of the soft sheets below him. “But it’s not the end of the world.”


End file.
